Tuesday, March 23, 2010

stubby cracked fingers
they're not

elegant and calming
unearthly connections
ten tiny wells

what flows through you?
what do you channel?

create through lead
through wood and paper
create through the flesh

little muscles focused
around the circumference of a pencil
something exotic
in the wild wild strands of hair

little muscles focused
around me
what do you channel through me?
what flows into me?

let my body
be a canvas
for ten slender brushes

send my color
flowing out across the page
across your sheets

a history of lines
across my back
and in my mouth
megan is in the hills
that follow me out to the east
flowing force of earth
swimming up and around rock and river
they're the arc of your back
and the rivulet of your spine
under a waxing moonlight
i can only feel the comfort of your calves

the hills are something boiling
something tumbling beneath the skin
and oh my flaming head against the window of the greyhound
a holy circle of frost around my bowing head
i was praying for something beautiful to happen

the way back west
soft earth and moon replaced
a painful solar gaze and a stretch of dead field
it was the morning's first invasive light
grown into the size of a week
and it was foreshadowing to me even then
in your basement after dark
my hands are spiderwebs
clinging lightly to every corner of your body
and in the dark we both pulse
we ebb and flow
between finger tensed lip biting tongue shoving leg gripping throat moaning sweat dripping jean straining neck sucking breath stealing muscle aching back arching thigh pulling hip thrusting
whispers whispers
what we are afraid of most
what time is it
but the black whispers us back into each other
and the black crushes me back into you
let me put all my color into you
can i show you my deepest reds?
my pinkest pinks?
an unseen black heart beats now
bangs out of pace now
something primal that swallows us both
it's in your eyes
and i hope it's in my eyes too
and i hope we're both caught in the black's bloodstream
swept up into clothe tearing wrist holding hard kissing hair tossing mouth gaping teeth sinking back scratching nail digging rhythmic pounding dragging grinding throbbing breathy heaving gasping

Thursday, March 11, 2010

the first storm was this morning
rain at my window, thunder in the walls
but it was you that woke me
and all day a fog hung around the streetlamps
and all day a fog hung around my head
taking in abstract resistance
the shadow that's the darkest side of us
pulling me down
and 52 neatly packaged messages
of genital mutilation and rape filled up my eyes
bloated out my head
and i don't quite to know what to say
when you ask me what i thought
with your earnestly inquisitive eyes searching out the recesses in mine
and it's foggy in my mind, can i touch you
when we're sitting in a dark room watching burning photographs?
i guess there's something in the way
that you run fingers through your hair
and it's foggy in my mind, can i touch you
when we're sitting on a bench listening to local artists
i guess there's something in the way
that you kick your legs when you laugh
and it's foggy in my mind, can i kiss you
when we're parked in my car in your driveway in light rain?
i guess there's something in the way
that the streetlights fill up your eyes
and i guess it makes perfect sense that the drive home was through a thick fog

Dream Journal 14

i was with alec and we were on a soccer team but we were playing against a british team so the rules were really different. in the game you could use your hands and toss the ball around and pick it up and run with it. so i guess it was more like rugby. the game was a charity event to raise money for some disease, or veterans, or something.

a bunch of other people were on the team; kody, megan, ben, and others i don't remember. i wasn't on the starting team and neither was megan. on the bench she was talking with my brother and ignoring me. while i watched the game our team was not playing well, we kept doing all these extravagant and pointless moves and not just scoring easy goals. we kept missing shots by just a few inches.

then it started to rain and the field got muddy. megan was still ignoring me until i made a joke about how maybe everyone in the game actually had diseases which is why we never scored. she laughed at that. after i said that they played a video of a helicopter crashing and the pilot dying on the stadium big screen. i guess we were playing for him.

next it is after the game and i am putting on my clothes at home. that day i had gotten a new bra in the mail and so i go to put it out, but it's more of a sports bra that will leave me looking flat. this upsets me a lot. so i take off the bra i am wearing and put on the new one and then the rest of my uncomfortable clothes. i look at myself in the mirror for a long time and wonder why i never noticed that i wore women's clothes before.

then i woke up

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

so out of place
so absolutely in the only place i could be
listening to josiah
listening to flicking lighters
my quiet humming and your fingertaps
the fading winter wind no longer bellowing
the sounds of us both living in your car
so out of place
so absolutely in the only place that i could be
in your basement on the couch
feeling each other dully through thick comforters
feeling the sun and the hours and windows
slipping away
lusting to escape the growing springtime light
into the dark
so out of place
so out of sync with the way that we were
when you ask me kindly to go
so you can get some sleep
and i never worked up the courage
to try and touch you
so childish so childish
i drive home waiting for a message from you
swaying like distant heat in the summer
feeling like a child
meeting at a central location on bicycles
bare knees and bare feet
whispering beneath a plastic slide
when we speak in these wild open tones
it feels exciting
i hope i'm not placing too much hope
on your slender little frame
it's so exotic to have another body
inside this car
empty for miles and hours
escaping and returning to looming shadows of skyscrapes
i hope i'm not placing too much pressure
on your slender fingers
writing out each lengthy message
about color palettes of paintings
or the ways that vonnegut has affected ourselves
so selfishly waiting on your overflowing response
getting hard at everything that you say
i hope i'm not placing too much of me
inside of you
needing to tell you my anxiety at 3 am

Sunday, March 7, 2010

today i liked
sitting in a theater filled with people we didn't know
and some we did
i mean some that she did
and watching a terrible movie and laughing out loud
at all the same awful parts
and none of the little strangers making a sound
i liked megan's voice
and how it was so much lighter than i thought it would be
so much lighter than anything i had heard before
if i'm writing poorly it is like a whisper on winter winds
it is something forgotten, a moment shrouded in nostalgia from childhood
something like a million little ants on the sidewalk
something like being alone in a forest outside my grandparents house
if i'm writing truthfully it is soft and delicate
fragile, no not fragile, but crystalline
and her eyes that looked so unafraid into mine
and i was always the first to look away
and i will always be the first to look away
the drive home was fast and i was light
and it was a moment of pleasure that i should hold on to
like the tralfamadorians do
and it will just as pleasant to take medicine and fall asleep
to Daniel Johnston screaming about Satan in the woods
and how some things take a life time
and i wish i were a better writer when i am
sick and/or happy

Saturday, March 6, 2010

i promise to start writing in the first person more often
and using names of the people in my life
in attempt to be more truthful
whatever that means
i've been obsessing over the brains chemical cycle
and how it rockets and dives in bright violence
every time we orgasm
and how i pile these peaks and valleys on one another
creating a jagged landscape in my mind
rocky harrowing heights for a synapse to climb
and then a 500 meter drop off for my thoughts to falter off
and so it makes it feel all the worse when i get off in the shower
my stomach glowing red and little beads of sweat gathering
at the edge of where my forehead meets hair
and i can't quite remember if i said your name out loud when i climaxed
to feel the chemicals drag me down the drain
to watch half myself go down the drain
every time i get off
megan makes me wonder what it means to get this off my chest
and where all my anxities go when i pour them out onto paper or through keys
does she absorb me when she reads me? does whitney still cry?
does my mom have this page bookmarked as a way to try and get close to me?
how come i can only write about women? i need to turn my libido off
i guess this is me trailing off
i miss jackson and his slender frame and awkward elbows
and the way he made me feel like a central character in anything
and he was a cronie and a sidekick and more trustworthy and reliable then i ever
allowed him to be
nostalgia for a seattle summer and walking down to the fishery building
for creative writing and then loud laughs on the walk home
how often did i split off

guess i am trailing off now

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

sometimes i wake up
and my eyebrows are falling out
and the hair on my stomach is cemented down
held hard in unnatural bends

sometimes i wake up
and my arm is asleep and heavy heavy dead
cells spark up the feeling eventually
and i can rub the sleep from both eyes

sometimes i wake up
and my throat is full of mucus and i can't breathe
it hurts like i have been crying hard
or that i should have been
what do i choke back in my dreams?

sometimes i wake up
fetal and alone with a phantom body pressed to mine
i think about all the pretty pretty girls i am awful to
and how i won't be calling anyone today